The Phantom's Opera
by M'selle de Paris
Summary: Christine returns to the opera after many years so that her daughter Lise can take up the business once again...but when the Phantom returns, will Christine escape so easily this time?..
1. Angel of Music

1  
  
"Lise! Please, go to bed now. There's time to sing in the morning."  
  
The call came from Christine Daaé, France's former prima donna, and the mother of a girl who would most likely be the world's next. Christine had been a stunning woman in her earlier days, and still was remarkable; but back then, she had been the star of every show. And most knew- though no-one dared to admit it aloud- that it was all due to the secret training of the mysterious and terrifying Phantom of the Opera.  
  
But the moment Christine's daughter, Lise, had learned to speak- and sing- her voice very clearly outshone her mother's. And so imagine how much more wonderful it could become with the proper instruction!  
  
However, though Christine and her husband Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, searched everywhere imaginable for an adequate instructor, none was competent enough, good enough, learned enough to instruct Lise. There was none that could match her voice and level of talent who could teach her more than she already knew without instruction.  
  
And, though years had passed, Christine still remembered far back to the days when she had been in her prime, the days spent practicing at the Paris opera, and, most clearly of all, the nights spent being coached by an invisible angel of music from behind a mirror.  
  
And so Christine could think of only one suitable teacher for her daughter.  
  
The Phantom of the Opera.  
  
Lise stood at the window, frowning in deep concentration at the sheets of music in her hand. She had been trying to teach herself for some time a tune from a libretto she had found in her mother's old valise from her opera days. And Lise, though she enjoyed singing solely for pleasure, knew two things: one, as there was no teacher knowledgeable enough to teach her, she would have to teach herself. And two, she knew (modestly enough, of course) that her great talent could not be wasted- and it was time she introduced herself to the world of the opera- or rather, the opera should prepare to meet her.  
  
Lise had, indeed, incredible talent for an untrained girl of seventeen. She had waited long enough: she wanted now to go into the real world and use her great gift to its very best.  
  
She read the last short verse of a hauntingly eerie song near the end of the libretto: "...The final threshold, the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn.we've past the point of no return..." She shivered. Aside from being a great singer, she was a bit of a bookworm, and words used in the right way really thrilled her. Lise then softly sang the words along to the tune.  
  
Somehow, it made her feel scared. Who could possibly write such a powerful piece? Most operas were based on something from real life- a historical event, a personal experience...who could have possibly experienced these feelings so strongly? Who had the opera been intended for?  
  
Lise checked again the title of the opera: "Don Juan Triumphant". It couldn't have been a very famous play, since she had never heard of it. Lise knew at lest the titles of the most famous operas.  
  
Suddenly excited, Lise's restless, wild mind set to work on a plan. I'll meet this genius, she thought. I'll receive instruction from this angel of talent, worthy of mine. I'll find this angel of music... 


	2. A New Prima Donna

2  
  
Christine and Lise stepped daintily out of the train and onto the platform, where journalists and news reporters crowded around to get a glimpse of the once prima donna. Years ago she had been one of the most valuable people in all of Paris. Now.she was still adored, but she no longer sang for the opera. Her last play, "Don Juan Triumphant", had ended in disaster. Only Christine knew what the disaster truly had been.  
  
Lise, suddenly shy in front of the crowd, smiled meekly and followed closely behind her mother. The public had only heard rumors of her talent, but until now, her voice had been well protected in their grand home in the south of France. Coming now to Paris, and to the opera, Lise's great talent was on the verge of being unleashed to Europe. She would be bigger, even, than Christine.  
  
Mother and daughter clambered into a carriage, lifting their skirts up out of the snow and slush, and they departed to the opera house. Both stared out the windows on either side in awe: Lise, because she had never seen such a large, busy, beautiful city in her life; and Christine, because memories of years and years ago were flooding back to her. She felt like she was still that same young, innocent prima donna, naïve and ignorant, tasting fame and all that sort of business for the first time.  
  
They finally pulled up to the opera house. The two stepped out, and Lise tugged on her mother's sleeve. "Mama, look! How quaint," she exclaimed, pointing at a little monkey music-box. It played a tune that Lise was hearing for the first time.but that Christine knew very well. She turned pale and froze in place, staring at it.  
  
"Mama? What is it?" Lise looked up at her mother quizzically.  
  
"Masquerade," Christine whispered. At once she turned on her heel and entered the opera house, leaving Lise to hurry after her, trailing behind, puzzled at her mother's odd behavior.

"Could it be?- Christine!"  
  
A joyful cry rose from the stage. A woman around Christine's age, perhaps a little younger, rushed down and threw her arms around Christine.  
  
"Meg!" Christine gasped. "Look at you! You're the teacher now!" she laughed. Meg Giry had always been the clumsy ballerina, always behind the rest by one second. But now Meg was grown, and graceful. She performed a little pirouette for Christine.  
  
"My mother's useless now; all she does is sew and cook," Meg giggled. "She says she can still teach, but she can hardly stand on her own. That's what happens when you get old."  
  
Christine smiled. "Forgive me for losing contact; it's been...difficult...to move on," she apologized, trying to find the right words. Meg grew somber. "Of course. You've been through so much."  
  
"What? What happened, Mama?" Lise asked eagerly, curious. Her mother and this old friend of hers seemed to share some secret, something far more serious than they let on.  
  
Christine turned to Lise in surprise, as if she had forgotten she was there. "Oh! Of course! Meg, may I introduce you to my daughter, Lise."  
  
Lise curtseyed for Meg, and Meg mirrored the action. "She's the spitting image of you, Christine!" she laughed. "But-" Meg's face distorted in bewilderment. "She looks...I- I don't see Raoul in her," Meg remarked. She looked to Christine.  
  
"There is still much you don't know about...what happened," Christine said, lowering her voice. "I shall tell you later."  
  
The whisper, however, wasn't quite quiet enough. Lise heard, and her curiosity grew. She resolved to listen in whenever her mother decided to fill Meg in on this dark secret of hers. After all, it had to concern her, because of Meg's odd reaction to her. Raoul was her father, yes, but maybe she just hadn't inherited any features from him. What was wrong with that?  
  
Although, her eyes were indeed very different from Christine's. Lise had always assumed they were just from ancestors further back along the line. She had never thought much about that kind of thing.  
  
Then Meg remembered her place. "I must get back to my teaching," she sighed, glancing towards the young ballerinas onstage. "But afterwards, I'd like to hear you." This last comment was directed at Lise, accompanied with a sly but slightly guilty grin. "After all, that's why you came, isn't it? I overheard the managers talking about the message from you, Christine...I swear I wasn't spying on them!" she said. Her smile gave her away. "Well, I was anxious to hear how you were. But, I must go now. You may watch, if you wish. I'll be finished soon."  
  
Christine and her daughter settled down in the front row to watch. Christine marveled at the change in Meg. Before, she had been a tiny thing with great big oaf feet and had stumbled around, trying her best to please her mother- the former ballet instructor, Madame Giry. But now Meg was a work of art: beautiful of face, slim but curved and perfect of figure, and graceful as ever. Christine felt proud for her friend, and realized she had missed her, and wished she could have been there to watch the change take place and to encourage her.  
  
Meg soon finished instruction and joined Christine and Lise once again. "Now," Meg said. "I'll fetch the managers and tell them you've arrived."  
  
Soon the managers entered the room and stopped dead at the sight of Christine. The men, André and Firmin, had been the managers in the time of Christine also. They had been younger then, but were now older and not quite as agile and quick-witted as they had been.  
  
"Mademoiselle Daaé! You've returned to us at last!" Firmin exclaimed, strutting in a dignified way over to Christine to kiss her hand. André, not wanting to be left behind, hurried over and did the same.  
  
"We received your message and have been waiting anxiously to see you again!" Firmin said, smiling upon the former prima donna. "You look splendid.and who is this young mademoiselle?"  
  
"My daughter, Lise," Christine said, smiling upon her. Lise curtsied politely, a little overwhelmed at the excitement of the two managers.  
  
"Is she-"  
  
"Yes, she's the one bearing the burden of great talent," Christine laughed. "She's prepared a piece for you to hear her. Lise?"  
  
Nervously, Lise walked up to the stage. Her stomach fluttered madly as she stepped up, but once she turned to face the rows of velvet seats, her fears dissolved immediately. She imagined the crowds in the audience giving her a standing ovation, roaring for more. She knew this was where she was destined to be; in the spotlight. And then she began to sing.  
  
Her voice was like a waterfall: beginning calmly and softly, but gradually rushing and pouring out of her mouth, reaching out to all corners of the great room; charming everyone and everything and turning the world to gold; evenly growing to the peak of the climax, seeping through hearts and flowing through the souls of the audience. Her sweet but strong and confident voice proved to be even better onstage, where she was meant to be. And her body stood firmly, confidently upstage center, flooding down to the audience sitting in pleasant shock below.  
  
She finished her song slowly, her enchanting voice fading to a whisper, as if it were disappearing over golden hills into a flaming sunset. At first the managers were too shocked to do or say anything at all, and even Christine was surprised at the maturity and control of her daughter's voice. She had expected it to be a little less strong, since it was usually hard to get up onstage and do that in front of a judging audience; but Lise had been as good as ever, and better even. Meg herself was completely speechless: this girl was even better than Christine herself had been, even at her best moment!  
  
When Lise had finally finished, she went quiet and smiled shyly, waiting. André could say nothing at all, and Firmin only nodded and gasped, "She's in." Christine and Meg applauded energetically, smiling and cheering Lise on.  
  
Yet, a part of Christine was a little sad. She had once had such talent, and she wished she could go back to that moment when her angel's teachings finally shone through: when she sang for André and Firmin all that time ago when the former star Carlotta had left the opera. She too had amazed them, and had become a legend overnight. There had been rumors about her, that she was part goddess, that she channeled the voice of an angel. Except, that last part was true indeed: the Phantom, her beloved Angel of Music, had been the one who really gave her that gift. And then she had been asked to give him her love in return for her talent...but by refusing, she could not and would not sing again. She felt too bad about betraying the Phantom; she couldn't use what he had taught her when she had fled from him. What kind of thanks was that? She had had no gratitude; therefore, she would pay by giving away her gift, abandoning her talent in favor of a quiet, uneventful life; where there were no surprises, no exciting happenings. This- her daughter's audition- was the first time she had left her little town in the south, and certainly the first time she had gone to Paris since the Phantom had brought her down to the deep, dank tunnels under the Paris opera.  
  
But the worst part was, no-one really shared the burden of that secret with her. Raoul had come and saved her in the end- that was certain. But that was all he knew. What had happened before that...before anyone found her...only she- and the Phantom- knew. They all believed he had just taken her down, and then they jumped to the conclusion that Raoul had been down just afterwards to rescue her.  
  
But those hours before help came...oh, if only they knew. If only they had known then...  
  
She knew she couldn't tell Raoul, never! It was out of question; it would ruin their lives together. And she couldn't tell Lise- well, at least, not yet. But she longed to tell someone- she felt she would let it slip otherwise. Oh, how Christine wished there was no secret to hide at all! If it would just disappear; if the secret would just crawl away and die.  
  
Christine decided she would tell Meg. 


	3. Secrets Revealed

3  
  
Lise felt embarrassed but proud of her performance for the managers, and was even more thrilled to learn that she would basically be the star in about all of the shows. Normally the managers wouldn't make such a promise, but Lise's talent was so great and reliable that André and Firmin would promise the world to her if she wanted it.  
  
They showed her around the opera house, and brought her finally to a dressing room and informed her it would be officially and only hers. Lise stepped inside, and loved it immediately: the walls were painted a soft light pink (her favorite color for everything), there were delicate but luminous lamps shining warmly upon an antique mahogany dressing table. There was an empty closet on the left side of the lovely room, empty of clothes and costumes but full of sunny yellow hangers that longed to carry a beautiful dress on their shoulders. On a small square chest of drawers behind the door sat a fragile light purple vase full of fresh lilies which filled the dressing room with a sweet perfume. Finally, on the right side, there hug a mirror which went completely from ceiling to floor, and though the outer edge was magnificently carved with gold, the mirror itself had a queer foggy look in it. But Lise could see her reflection well enough, so what more could she ask of a mirror?  
  
"This is lovely, really," she sighed to André.  
  
"Hasn't been used in quite a while, so it's a tad dusty," he remarked, running his hand along the vanity table and examining his gray palm. "But we'll have it sorted in no time. The maid Sofie can dust this afternoon, in fact."  
  
"Take your time," Lise assured him. She was so grateful, and felt so lucky to have such a wonderful place to be as this: she could use her talent to its best extent, and she got a wonderful place to stay besides. Firmin owned a few very nice apartments that he would let to some of the cast of the operas that were currently going on, and Lise had been lucky enough to score the last one: the nicest one of all. Being the daughter of the former prima donna, she had the money to let the grand suite.

Meanwhile, Christine ushered Meg into a private little lounge opposite the managers' office.  
  
"Meg, before I tell you any of this- I know you're very trustworthy, but you must promise me you won't tell any of this- absolutely anything, not one word of it- to anyone at all. Not even your mother- though doubtless she has her suspicions."  
  
Meg, feeling a little frightened at the tone of her dear friend's voice, shook her head vigorously. "You have my word," she whispered. "What is this important secret? It must be a lot. I've not seen you this anxious since.since it actually happened." She gave a short nervous laugh, and glanced worriedly at her friend. "Tell me. You must be bearing quite a burden by keeping this to yourself."  
  
Christine nodded. "It's been difficult...I've never felt so alone in my life." Clearing her throat, reluctantly, she began.  
  
"I did tell you of how the- the Phantom- was the one who trained me, trained my voice, did I not? Yes, well, he had always come to me in my dressing room, behind my mirror. I thought.I thought then that he really was some angel, some ghost, who was magically appearing, somehow.  
  
"But no sooner had I explained to you how he had taught me- after you left, and after a visit from Raoul- he appeared to me, and the mirror- he- opened it somehow, and.there was a passage. A secret tunnel.dark, and dank, and deep beneath the opera. He brought me to his- his hiding place, I suppose it was- though I still to this day don't know why he was there at all. Raoul told me your mother said he had been a runaway from some traveling freak-show- no doubt because of the deformity on his face.oh, Meg, if you had seen it-! Terrible, terrifying; like seeing the rotting insides of some creature-!" Christine stopped short with a gasp, breathing shallowly, trying to get back her breath. What she spoke of touched on painful memories. Meg steadied her, gently holding her shoulders and looking into her face. "You needn't continue if it..." But Christine shook her head forcefully, regaining her composure. She had started this- she now had to continue, all the way.  
  
"I was horrified then. I grew used to it eventually.not for a while, though. But- when he took me down.took me down across an underground lake, down a dark, slimy path, and into his- his lair, in a way. Where he dwelled and pondered ways to scare those in the opera." She shivered. "That's really all he did, how he spent his days. But I should tell you.I should have known why he was teaching me at all...why he came to me, and not some other, right from the start- he wanted me for his own; I suppose- he loved me; if he even knew how to love- having had the world hate him for all his life- but he had taught me, and he was my angel, Angel of Music, and I feared him not because he developed my talent and the mask he wore.he hid himself from me until that night, when I took it off." Again, she shuddered in bitter remembrance. "He was furious. He told me now that I had seen him, I would never be free...and he loved me because I didn't hate him. That was why. And because I was so ignorant and naïve that I went with him because I thought he was an angel.and he wanted me to stay with him because I was beautiful, because I could make up for him the beauty that he had not...  
  
"But he returned me the following morning because I had angered him, by removing the mask and viewing his deformity. He had to get me away; perhaps so that the memory of his hideous face would fade from my mind. But I still thought he was my angel- a much harsher and more frightening angel, but an angel nonetheless.a guide, a helper...he supplied my talent. It was my face but his voice onstage there, his talent shining through me. I carried his fame for him; the mask he wore never was what shielded him from the world- I shielded him. I was his mask.  
  
"You know what happened after that, Meg- you read all the messages, saw all the horrors.but after we performed his musical- "Don Juan Triumphant"- you saw the dead body behind the curtain after the Phantom disappeared with me, but I don't believe you were aware that it was Piangi's body?"  
  
Meg stared back at Christine in horror. "What- who-!" Then she understood. "No..." she breathed. "It- I- why did I not realize?"  
  
"No one did- but me. I was the one who had to look into his face, feel his arms caress me all through the song." Christine's eyes grew dim and looked past Meg, remembering. Remembering terrible times. "I recognized his voice at once, that angelic yet hellish voice which taught me, sang to me, rang through my head in the dark of my mind as I slept. And at the end...when I revealed his face...  
  
"I thought he might be caught- I was afraid to betray him, my angel of music, but I was afraid also of what he might do to me. But my fears were confirmed, after all. He took me to his underground domain once more, and..." Christine's voice trailed off. But then a state of panic took her over. "He was a _fallen_ angel- he took me, not caring about my own desires, he wanted me to be his- his- "  
  
Christine suddenly went silent, and looked down. She was shaking- in anger? fear? Meg struggled to untangle her emotions.  
  
Finally, after a long silence, Christine looked up again. "You say you don't see Raoul in Lise?" she whispered, her eyes dark and glinting. She looked like one possessed, with dark circles under her eyes, and lines suddenly appearing, twisting her soft, pretty face into a hard, wild distortion. "Look at my daughter. Maybe in her you'll see- you'll find- you will see the parts of me...and others of." She paused, then opened her mouth to continue- but wasn't quite sure how to phrase what she was trying to say. "The Phantom lives on.the phantom is alive...in my daughter...or, rather, in..." Christine slowly and menacingly pulled out from her cloak a simple white mask- "..._our_ daughter..."Sofie, the maid who worked at the Paris opera house, had been sent to dust the old, abandoned dressing room.  
  
It wasn't in such a bad state- it was just that no-one had used it in years; not after- well, they all knew what happened: at least, all of the staff and workers who had been there at the time. Newcomers only heard rumors and tidbits, but didn't know the true story. Sofie knew, because she had worked at the opera house back then, too, and had also been among the crowd to go down to the Phantom's little underground habitat to find Christine, and capture the Phantom. They had all seen him flit across the room and cover himself with a black cloak in a tall towering chair, but when one of them had gone boldly forward and pulled back the cloak, there had been nothing but a white mask- the mask the Phantom had used to hide his horrible, deformed face in. They had left it there, too afraid to even touch anything the Phantom had- it had become a kind of superstition among those in the opera who knew that tale. Anywhere the Phantom had gone they would not go, and the Phantom's belongings and anything in his 'home' they left alone. And fortunately, there had been no sign of him at all since then- no more messages, no more disturbances or 'accidents' anymore. But to stay on the safe side, Box Five was no longer in use at all. No one dared to even set foot on the dark, ominous staircase which led up to it.  
  
And so Sofie was immensely surprised, and suspicious even, that they would send her to clear it up. And when the informed her that the new girl, Lise, would be staying in it- why, she laughed at first! The very dressing room in which the Phantom of the Opera had appeared to Mademoiselle Daaé? The dressing room in which he had taught her, then somehow taken her down underground? Sofie trembled even as she placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly, and with difficulty too- the lock had gotten rusty and didn't slide the way it should. Sofie saw to that first of all, trying to delay actually entering the room for as long as possible. Then she made sure the hinges were working properly, and then stalled for a few minutes longer outside the door, polishing the perfectly cut gold numbers on the front of the door. And finally, out of excuses, she went in.  
  
The room looked just as it used to- only dimmer and dirtier. She set to work first (cautiously, carefully, very aware and attentively, listening for the slightest noises or strange sights) on dusting the dressing table and the chest of drawers. That done, and feeling more confident, she approached the lamps and checked the oil. She busied herself attending to the smallest of details- making sure the hangars hung strait in the closet, tightening the screws on the drawer handles, cleaning out any dust or dirt inside the drawers.  
  
Then she noticed the lilies.  
  
If the entire room was so dusty and unattended to, and hadn't been entered until that very day, then why were there fresh new lilies in the vase? And the vase wasn't even clean- it too was dusty and old. But the flowers- they couldn't possibly have stayed in that beautiful condition since all those years ago- precisely eighteen, wasn't it? Yes, eighteen years. Who could have come and put those flowers in?  
  
Sofie frowned, a little worried. They said no-one had been in here.well, one of the workers might have just come in without telling anyone.no, that was absurd. Why would the poorly paid stagehands waste money on flowers that weren't even for them or a friend or anyone? It wasn't even a thought worth thinking. Sofie could come up with no possible answer.  
  
But, being a maid, she knew she should just get on with her job and get it done and leave the room as soon as possible. She turned to the large full-length mirror, and set to polishing it.  
  
However, no matter how hard she scrubbed, the fogged-up look lingered on. It was the oddest thing. Why did it remain in that dusty manner? Sofie cursed the mirror in her head, attacking the mirror with her rag. She pressed it hard to the mirror, rubbing the cloth almost raw until-  
  
The mirror gave way. It just swung forward under her fingers, and Sofie found herself staring down a dark tunnel, where beyond in the distance lay an underground lake. 


	4. Into the Mist

4  
That night, Meg lay in her bed wide awake, unable to stop the stream of thoughts swirling inside her head. Lise was- Christine had-! It was unthinkable. And what did Raoul know of it? He thought Lise was his own, naturally...but it made no sense! Christine would never have allowed... But Meg knew better than that. The Phantom of the Opera had scared them all into submission with his mysterious messages in which he seemed to know everything about them. He had picked through their lives, drawn out the raw details, and set them on display for all to see.  
And now Christine's life could no longer be that perfect, precious, free life every girl dreamed of. And all because of the Phantom. Meg had never even seen him close; she knew him only as 'the Phantom'. Only Christine really knew him- she had slipped once and called him 'Erik'. A little ashamed, Meg had wondered how such a creature even deserved a name. But perhaps it wasn't his fault he had been cast out of society... Meg remembered the look on Christine's face as she had described the Phantom's pain: Christine had looked as though the pain were her own. She pities him, Meg thought. If it were me, I could never forgive him for...  
Meg didn't even want to think about what had happened. She had been brought up respectably, and respectable girls didn't pay attention to those kinds of issues, because they didn't exist in their perfect little lives.  
But Christine had once been a respectable young woman, too. Meg knew that the one thing in the world that Christine wanted was to go back to when she was merely a chorus girl in the opera. Meg knew that however much Christine loved her voice and talent and the fame, it was all because of the Phantom- and now, that one-time Angel of Music had destroyed any chance of a perfect- or at least, almost perfect- life. Oh, to the public of course it seemed fine and fair: they all believed that Christine had simply married Raoul, then had a child, and was living out her happily-ever-after. But now Meg knew better. She used to be envious of Christine- catching the eye of a most fine man; a young, handsome man in a position of power- but Meg also now realized that while Christine had cared for him, it was only in the early stages of affection- she would never have thought of getting married until much, much later.  
It was the Phantom who had almost forced her to marry. If she hadn't, what would the world think- her, with child, and no husband to show for it? It was completely unthinkable. Nothing of the sort ever happened at all, anywhere- or at least, not in the view of the public. Anything so terrible as that that happened, stayed well hidden behind walls, in the privacy of the homes of those unfortunate souls.  
Meg cared for her friend, more than anyone could imagine- and she would surely support the poor thing, no matter what. But, still. Meg was just glad, and immensely relieved, that it hadn't happened to her.  
  
Christine sat at the desk in the little study, scribbling furiously in her journal. This secret was truly beginning to take its toll on her, and she couldn't contain the thoughts roaming her mind- the thoughts she couldn't even admit to Meg.  
'Meg knows now', she wrote. 'I've shared the great burden I've been carrying ever since those days in the opera- but I still can't live my life with such a secret. How can I be expected to say, "Oh, it's all alright, time heals all"? Because it doesn't. No matter what people say, something like this- even if the world knew the secret- would never fade. I can't live a normal life like this. I can't just go back to Raoul and act completely normal, and live a lie- especially not after reliving it, while I told Meg.  
The thing is, when Erik first appeared to me, I believed him to be my Angel of Music- my father once told me a story of a girl, Little Lotte I think it was, who had an Angel of Music. Or something to that extent. But my father told me that after he died, he would send me my own Angel of Music.  
And my father did die- quite early, I'm afraid. It was truly traumatic for me- I didn't know how I would ever get on. But then, as I began to despair of my career in the opera, and my boring, useless life, Erik came to me from behind my mirror- I thought at the time it was some sort of ghost-trick, or some magical effect. Really! But he told me he was my Angel of Music- I suppose he had heard me call out in despair in my dressing room- and he, with his hauntingly beautiful voice, began to teach me. He brought out in me what I didn't even know I had. And I became the star of the opera. The prima donna. In my wildest dreams I had never even thought it would ever come to that!  
But then things started happening. And I knew it was all because of the Phantom of the Opera- who, incidentally, was the very same Angel of Music I had been getting instruction from. The only one who knew of this secret tutor was Meg, good friend that she was- and still is. But, I began to fear the Phantom- my Angel- Erik- and the only other man I cared about- or even knew well, for that matter- was Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, and my childhood friend. I remember taking a deep liking to him as a child- just mild affection, as children do sometimes experience. But I knew he loved me, and what more could I want in life? He would provide a home, security, and he cared profoundly for me- so I had the safety of knowing he would never hurt me.  
But I didn't love him. Not at all. I cared for him, certainly- but as a friend. After all, we can't stay children in childhood affection forever. But when he proposed to me, I accepted- for what I saw in it was an opportunity, a way to get out of this Phantom of the Opera business if I needed to.  
But as fear of the Phantom grew, my admiration for the Angel and- I admit- love for Erik grew, too. He was like three different people: as the Phantom, he was the terrifying, mysterious ghost who controlled the opera, and we were all wrapped around his finger. As the Angel of Music, he was like a reminder of my father: he continued to teach me, and I knew he cared for me- truly cared. But then, on the few opportunities when I got to be with him as Erik...  
I don't know quite to think. It's nothing to do with his scars- well, I admit, at first I was shocked and a little repelled. But I realized he was just a man, like any other, who longed for affection and trust- for all his life, he had been shunned from the world; he hadn't ever been given the time of day. Everyone treated him as an outcast; as if he weren't even a human. But although this made him bitter against people, it also gave him an interesting view on the world and people in general: he was an outsider, so he saw people simply as they were, without condemning them. Although he was torn up by those who judged him- which was basically everyone- he realized, in his heart, that by judging people he could make their lives content, or miserable like his. And his heart was good, and caring- and although it sometimes scared me a little that he was so possessed with me, I admit it was flattering- and eventually I came to see that instead of being that mysterious monster I had first thought he was, I saw he was really and truly just a human being, like the rest of us. And so, as other human beings do, feelings began to grow- and they were different than any ordinary feelings, because of the situation. After all, no-one could know how I felt about him- it was preposterous! First, none would believe me- and if they did, they would think me mad or possessed by him and do away with me. And him, too. And so I couldn't do anything at all to protect him from the fate I saw coming from the start- I knew they would find him out, for he was growing ever weaker with feelings for me as I was for him. During that song in his opera- 'The Point of No Return'- I realized he had written that with me in mind, and I knew what was coming soon. And, oddly enough, though I could have stopped it- I did nothing. Somehow, I let it happen because...because I wanted it to happen. That it a shameful thing to say, I know; but Erik has made me feel so... I can't describe how it is when I'm with him. And when I pulled of his mask, somehow, I had forgotten the stage and the place- I was just overcome with emotion; I wanted to...well, I don't know what I wanted to do, exactly. I think part of me was still undecided- I wanted it to happen, what happened down there in his lair- but yet I was afraid. I couldn't decide if I wanted to let it happen, or if I wanted Raoul and his police to find him out and stop him. I think that if I had not taken the mask off- if I had finished the song and the opera as usual- it might not have happened. And, well, who knows what my life would be like then? But I just know that there's something in store for us both. I still feel it, even now, years later.  
And so...now begins another difficult part of my life. Being back here in the opera house, with all these memories coming back to me... I hear his eerie voice resounding from behind the stage; I feel his presence in my sleep. And although he hasn't come up since those long-ago happenings, and though he might have gone, he is here now. I can feel him. And it is time to make amends.'  
  
Lise was still jumpy and excited about being a part of the opera now. She was living her dream- just doing what she did best, singing, sharing her voice and talent with the audience, in return for their grateful applause-  
Don't get carried away, Lise! she said to herself. Don't get too full of yourself. You've not even begun yet! Listen to yourself, much too confident for such a little girl.  
But deep down inside Lise knew she wasn't a little girl anymore, and it had been at this age that her mother had joined the chorus at the opera. That was all she really knew about her mother's time in the opera- well, that she had soon afterwards gotten the leads in every play, too- but her mother seemed touchy on the subject. So Lise didn't bother bringing it up, and instead pictured herself there in the spotlight.  
She wandered aimlessly up the great red-carpeted staircase, then back down again. Then she strolled down the hall, admiring paintings of famous operas on the way, and finally found herself at the door of her soon-to-be dressing room. Once she got started on her operas.  
The door was partly open, and a broom was lying against the wall just outside the door. Lise realized that the maid must be cleaning in there, and began to back away, but then noticed that the maid wasn't in there after all. Lise supposed it wouldn't hurt just to glance around again. After all, there didn't seem to be much to do at the opera house, unless there was an opera going on.  
She tentatively poked her head in and around the door, glancing around- and then she did a double-take.  
The mirror was...open. It was a door- a double-sided mirror. How odd. Lise entered the room, still cautious, and looked out the mirror-door into a dark hallway, more like a tunnel.  
Lise wasn't one to back away from a potential adventure, and was scared of almost nothing- and so in she ventured; though still cautiously peeking back over her shoulder every once in a while. She heard a sudden noise and started- but then realized the noises were her own footsteps hesitantly padding down the hall.  
Finally she came to a strange body of water- like a pond or lake of some sort. She couldn't tell where it went to- there was too much fog and mist hanging ominously over the water.  
Unfortunately Lise noticed with slight regret that her adventure might have to end here. If the lake went anywhere, she couldn't get to that where, because there wasn't any boat- and she certainly wasn't desperate enough to swim there! Besides, it didn't really matter that much anyways-  
Then she spotted something large and wooden further down along the 'shore' of the lake- and discovered it was a wooden raft of some sort. Beside it were two long planks of wood. Lise interpreted these as oars and, feeling her mother was too caught up with her old friend to notice she was gone, she took off into the mist.  
  
Sofie the maid wasn't one to put herself into danger unwillingly, and she certainly didn't want to get fired from her job either, and so, although curiosity gnawed at her as she stared at the lake, she turned and began to creep back down the hall- until the sound of water splashing startled her. She spun around, breathing fast- and out of the fog came a long, narrow, wooden makeshift boat. And in it...  
Sofie wanted to scream but couldn't find her voice. Her feet were rooted to the spot. The Phantom! It had to be. The dark coat, the white mask-  
"Don't even try to go," a grave, husky voice cut into her thoughts. "I see you've discovered the door to my secret."  
She didn't know what to say. What could she say? "Oh, terribly sorry, I didn't know. I'll be going then, shall I?"  
Not exactly.  
Before she knew what was happening, the man had taken her arm with a firm grip, and she found herself walking obediently with him towards the boat, and he sat her down in it. "Curiosity killed the cat," the Phantom said, with a grim smile. "Discovering secrets comes with a price." 


	5. He's There, the Phantom of the Opera

I don't do much writing before stories, but...Okay, yes I do. Here we go! OK: first of all...THANK YOU ALL for the reviews!!! I love getting some feedback on my writing—especially when people say they like my stuff!! Woohoo, I like this fanfic biz! Teehee. Anyways- I want to thank the following peoples for the reviews: AngelCeleste85, erikorlando'sgirl (btw- thx for the big long reviews, I'm a wacky person too- and hey, is that Orlando as in Orlando Bloom?! Sorry he's mine! LOL), the Khanum of Persia, gryffingirl77, Ashley, and BlackRoseGirl. Oh- and in a couple of reviews, y'all didn't like how Christine described Erik- but hey, give it time...! And admit it—while you all love Erik NOW since he's been described flatteringly (is that a word?!) in other stories etc, you know you'd be pretty darn scared if it were you down there, knowing this random stranger was in complete control of all the people in the opera house, and he was gonna take you away and all. Come on, you know if you were in Christine's place you wouldn't exactly be singing & dancing...! (P.S. BlackRoseGirl- yeah I know that period thing is annoying, but I had it up on another site too, and that site didn't let me do ... . So no worries. I'm fixin' it! :P)  
  
Lise crouched down on the raft, her skirts trailing on the muddy boards, and squinted to try to see through the fog. The two wooden planks, which she was using to propel herself onwards in the water, rubbed roughly against her palms, and gave her several severe splinters- but Lise didn't even notice. This was too exciting an event to back down from.  
Although, she had to admit it was a little creepy down here, and it was a rather foolish thing to do- to go after the unknown, all alone, when no-one knew she was there. The darkness ahead and behind gave her a feeling of foreboding, and she shivered involuntarily.  
What was she expecting to find beyond the lake, anyways? For all she knew, it was simply a sewer, and she was merely taking a trip around for fun. Suddenly she felt embarrassed- it really was probably just a sewer. She, Lise, a respectable girl from a well-off family, was floating around aimlessly on a raft in an underground lake, which was not actually water but remains of-  
BAM! Without warning, the raft scraped up onto land. Lise was jolted off the raft, and for a moment she sat dazedly on the muddy ground, wondering what had just happened.  
Finally she came to her senses, stood up, brushed herself off- then turned around to see what lay ahead.  
The first thing she saw, straight in front of her, was a wide, tall iron gate. She followed it along for some while until she came to the far left side of it, where it ended against a wall.  
The fog was thick and distorting, but it didn't prevent her from seeing the lower part of the gate.  
It was open.  
Hesitantly, ever so carefully, glancing guiltily behind her shoulder, she crouched down and crept under the gate.  
  
Sofie sat, petrified, in the Phantom's lair; on a narrow, uncomfortable bench in the corner. Don't be thinking about comfort at a time like this! Sofie scolded herself, almost laughing. Your life is at stake! At least...it feels as though it should be.  
After all, Sofie still remembered seeing the limp, pale body of the stage hand hanging from the beams above the stage, in the middle of the performance 'Il Muto' in which the managers had disobeyed the Phantom. And so that was the price they had had to pay: it cost a life. And then just after the disaster of 'Don Juan Triumphant', the curtain of a little room onstage had been pulled back, and the dead body of Piangi, the man who was supposed to be playing the lead male part, was revealed.  
And they all saw, as Christine tore off his mask, that the Phantom of the Opera had taken his place- and then finally, with reluctance, all of them realized that Christine was the only thing he was after at all. Not fame in the opera, not success as a playwright- he wanted Christine for his own. That was all.  
Suddenly the Phantom's voice cut into her thoughts.  
"I shall not harm you," he said calmly, twirling a knife between his fingers. (Is that so? thought Sofie, eyeing the weapon.) "But only if you tell me...what I need to know."  
Sofie, not knowing what else to do, nodded fearfully. Anything to get out of there, alive.  
"It seems...it seems that we have visitors," the Phantom began, but his calm voice was shaking slightly. "I know one of them to be Christine Daaé." His voice cracked as he spoke the name, then he drew a shaky breath, regained his composure, and went on. "But there- there is another one. Give me the great pleasure...of knowing who she might be."  
He didn't place it as a question: it was a command. Tell him, Sofie told her frozen tongue. "It is- her daughter."  
The Phantom's face then contorted into an expression Sofie did not recognize. Was it fear? relief? anger? She was dying to know what was going on inside the Phantom's head, but at the same time was horrified at herself for wanting to concern herself in that kind of business.  
"And is she to take her- her mother's place in the opera?" Somehow, Sofie noticed, he said the word 'mother' with a different tone. But of course, she realized. He loved- possibly still loves- Christine, and here she is, with proof that she loves Raoul.  
"And Mademoiselle Daaé? What of her?" he asked, studying the knife in an overly-casual manner. It said a lot that he tried to hard to look as though he didn't care: clearly he must care a great deal.  
"She- she's staying at the opera house," Sofie stammered. "She will remain in the city until her daughter turns eighteen- when she is old enough to be on her own in the opera."  
"What is her daughter's name?"  
"Lise." It felt strange referring to someone superior to her in such an informal way: she mustn't use the young Mademoiselle's first name to address her, since she was but a maid.  
The Phantom suddenly swooped down on Sofie, leaning so far in that his face was only inches from hers. Sofie noticed, in the far back of her mind, that the Phantom wasn't so terrible-looking after all—if it weren't for the repelling features behind the mask. He actually looked rather—  
"If you so much as mention to a single living soul that you've come here, or discovered this place," he hissed menacingly, "matters will get complicated. Surely you don't want to be the one to revive the Phantom of the Opera and his little tricks, do you now?"  
Sofie shut her eyes tight and prayed in her head. Of course she didn't want to bring him back to haunt the opera. People would die. She would be blamed. They-  
"Come on now."  
But just as he took her arm and started towards the gate, he saw, at the far end of the gate, a figure silently slip under and venture deeper into his lair.  
"You left it open?" he breathed to Sofie, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. She winced, then nodded reluctantly. He was referring to the mirror in the dressing room.  
The Phantom lead her back to the bench and sat her down- then, as if they were possessed, tight ropes began to wind around her waist and wrists and anchored her to the bench. She couldn't move a muscle.  
Then, standing up tall and proud, and looking more intimidating than ever, the Phantom drifted slowly towards the dusty, dark piano that sat on the side of his underground chamber. Keeping his eyes on the person in the distance, he reached under the piano, and pulled back- he had pulled some sort of lever.  
With a hiss of air, a piece of the wall slid back near to where the girl was standing nervously. She jumped back in surprise- then, as if stepping willingly into the Phantom's little trap, she curiously ventured through the archway and into another dark tunnel beyond.  
Without a word, the Phantom, black cape flowing after him, feet gliding soundlessly, he reached the opening into which the girl had disappeared- and then, turning back for a last warning glance at Sofie, slipped into the tunnel- and the wall slid back into place behind him.  
  
"Lise! Lise, dear, are you in here?"  
Christine knocked softly against the door of Lise's bedroom, in their suite at the opera. No reply came. She knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.  
Opening the door hesitantly, Christine looked in. No-one was there. Well, what had she expected, after having knocked with no answer? She shut the door, somewhat perturbed. Something didn't feel quite right- she had looked almost everywhere for Lise, and had seen no sign of her. Perhaps she's also looking for me, and we've not crossed paths, thought Christine. Still, it felt odd. There was something hanging heavily in the air, like the feeling you get when you dread something terribly. But Christine was past listening to instinct. After all, look where it had led her, in the grand scheme of things.  
She slowly started back to her own room- but then a quick, hard rapping came at the front door of the little apartment.  
Christine hurried to the door and wrenched it open. "Yes?"  
"Madame Daaé," André panted. It was clear he had been running to reach her. "I hope I am not disturbing you?"  
"No, not at all- what is it? What's the matter?"  
André paused. He didn't want to cause the poor woman grief, after all she had been through in the past... But there was no point trying to show her the truth through a rose-tint.  
"Well...Firmin and I have just entered our office, and-" he faltered. Christine regarded him with concern and care.  
"We've received messages again."  
Christine stared, not sure how to translate it- until-  
"You mean to say-"she began in horror.  
André nodded. "He is back."  
  
Christine didn't know why it shocked her. She had known all along- ever since she had entered the opera house she had felt his presence. But still...the plain truth laid out like that in the open, that the Phantom of the Opera- that Erik, dear, poor Erik- was back. Back to- to do what? Haunt them all again?  
She felt suddenly very protective of her daughter. Erik wouldn't- he wouldn't put Lise through what Christine herself had been through, would he? Then she shook herself. Of course not. She's his own daughter, whether he admits it or not. And no matter how scary he may seem with his little acts and those messages, all that he does that induces so much fear- he's really sensitive deep down inside. He hides behind his mask, but also behind the facade in which he pretends he really is a horrible, cruel, vicious monster.  
But I know better! Christine's heart cried. He's not a monster, he's a man- and a true, good one at that! Although she hated to say it to herself, after all these years...she was somehow glad Erik was back. Despite the terrors he would surely bring. She still felt about him the way she had when she had fled the opera, all those many years ago. It was true that she had fled in fear: but it was fear of the power of her feelings. She couldn't stay with him and face what the world would think- and Erik. He didn't even know how she felt. Or at least...she didn't think so.  
How Christine wished she could just abandon life and go off with him! She needed nothing else but his music, his company- and his love, which gripped her heart like fear- but she hadn't mistaken it for fear. She had seen the passion in his eyes as he sang 'The Point of No Return'.  
Suddenly Christine tuned back into the real world. She was following André down the hall, and was now entering his and Firmin's study.  
Firmin stood at the window, holding his head with one hand and in the other was a small piece of paper, which he held with trembling, light fingers, as though it would jump up and bite him. He turned as he heard André enter and when Christine followed, he slowly trudged across the room to her and pushed an envelope into her hand.  
Christine looked down at the her own name on the envelope, and as she held it, a tingling feeling traveled from the fingers clutching the envelope up her arm and to her heart. She slowly turned it over, lifted the flap and pulled out a much larger piece of paper.  
The managers watched her read it, with dread and also profound curiosity. What did the Phantom want this time? Was he still after Christine?  
Christine read it in silence, and then, without looking up, she rushed out of the room.  
André and Firmin looked at each other, each trying to hide their fear. Yes, the Phantom was back...and with him came all the feelings of panic they had tried so hard to suppress.  
Yes, the Phantom was truly back. 


	6. All He Wanted

OKAY!! Chapter Six finally written! I'm getting oddly into this; considering I don't always even know what's going to happen until it does!!! (don't worry I do have plans for all our much-loved characters. :P) But I seriously have nothing else to do now, since everyone's out of town...and after all, if my dream is to be a writer, it's good practice for setting & keeping deadlines for myself!! See, I love writing, but I have absolutely no self-discipline. (Same story when it comes to eating candy. :P) So, it gives me something to work for by putting it on Fanfiction: your REVIEWS!! This is a warning—review, or I won't finish the story!!! LOL. ;) You know I'd never do that to ya. Anyways- enjoy!! (PS thanks again AngelCeleste85 for the big long review!! ;) didja get the email??)

  
  
**6**  
  
As Lise straightened up after crawling under the gate, she looked around her. To her right was just fog and mist- but she could make out dark shapes in the distance. She was just about to step that way when, with a low hiss, a panel in the wall to her left slid aside, revealing yet another tunnel.  
Somehow Lise thought this was some kind of sign- surely she was meant to go through. She was growing ever more confident, for she had not yet encountered danger of any sort. But that's ridiculous, Lise scoffed. Of course there's no danger. This is just an old, abandoned underground cellar. Nothing to worry about.  
Still, in the back of her mind lingered a sense of foreboding, telling her to go back. Unfortunately that was the part of her mind she always ignored.  
Lise stepped lightly into the tunnel. Along the walls were torches about five feet apart, that ran as far as she could make out down the long, dark hallway. But as she passed by the first torches, on either side, they lit up as she breezed past. She gasped, and stared, dumbfounded, at the torches.  
Then, just when she had shaken herself and turned to move on, she heard a familiar sound of escaping air—and turned to find that the panel in the wall had closed behind her, leaving her with no exit.

  
  
Christine burst into her room in the grand suite, threw herself upon the bed, and crumpled the letter tightly in her hand as tears silently trailed down her pale cheeks. How could he!? She, who had been the only one to trust the poor man, while the world laughed at him.  
For a while she simply lay there, and tried to clear her mind and relax. Not such an easy task, though. Then she slowly smoothed out the letter on the bed, and reread it:  
  
_To the pretentious Christine Daaé- or should I say, Christine de Chagny,  
  
It seems the opera has been a rather dull place since you've been gone from it, and upon hearing news of your arrival, I assumed it might be rather entertaining to have a little, should we say, 'revival' of the good times? Surely you can still make time in your perfect, passionate life with the dear Vicomte to come and pay me a visit—I believe a reunion is in order to discuss a certain...deal, shall we call it? Let me just say it involves a certain girl, a specific daughter who might be the main material of a secret of yours?... I look forward to seeing you, Christine.  
  
From yours truly (but of course only second place after your  
precious Raoul),  
The "Phantom of the Opera"_  
  
Blackmail! It was blackmail! Erik; her dear, poor Erik; was implying that if she did not comply to a certain deal, he would let slip the truth about Lise!  
Christine couldn't even believe the bitter, sarcastic tone of the letter. She had thought he loved her—she wouldn't be able to bear it if he hated her so, as it seemed in the letter! But she hadn't exactly let him know how she felt...after all, she had run off with the Vicomte when he let her—she had been relieved then, but had soon come to realize the mistake of her choice. And, well, Christine was still a little reluctant to admit how she felt. After all, it was torture to admit it and yet know nothing could be done about it.  
But the point was, she had to meet him. She would go back down, into the darkness, and revive the memories...  
It's all for the best, Christine thought, sighing. I'll die if I don't see him again while I'm here. And anyways, if I don't...I'll no longer have Raoul, should he know about Lise. It would kill him. He loves me so.  
Christine thought about that for a moment. She had a home, safety, a wonderful, talented daughter—and a man who loved her more than life itself. She was, all in all, being rather selfish: for here she was, contemplating giving her 'perfect' life away and running away into hiding with her secret lover—  
NO! Christine shook herself. I'm not running away, she said firmly. I'm not going into hiding. And he's certainly not my 'lover'—well, not anymore, at least.  
Yet she knew things might turn out differently. After all, she was about to see the man who had changed her life, gave her her voice, haunted her in her dreams...and then taken from her the most precious, protected thing a woman ever has.  
But, after all... Christine knew she couldn't lie when she saw him down there. Oh Erik, she said in her mind, her heart aching with longing and anticipation. Erik...I love you...  
Any chance of a calm, resolved meeting dissolved in her mind. Christine now imagined a passionate meeting, a loving embrace once more—  
You must stop! she shrieked in her mind. This won't get you anywhere. You can't do that! Your life would be ruined!  
But my life is already ruined, said a voice in the very back of her head. It's just a cover.  
Christine tried to think of a way she convey a message to Erik concerning when and where they would meet—but then she laughed aloud. It would be ever so ironic: she would go to the dressing room at eleven-forty- five, which was when she had always gotten back to her dressing room after a performance: the time she had been in her dressing room and had gone through the mirror the night she first saw his face, his true face behind the mask.

  
  
This is working out much better than I thought it would, thought Erik to himself, grimly satisfied. Though it pained him to have to do this to Christine, he had learned—after all the years of being scorned and turned aside and judged for his appearance—to numb the pain; ignore it and think only of the most logical solution, or what would be best for him. After all, the world was selfish with its compassion for him- why shouldn't he be selfish about some things too? He certainly deserved it, after all he had been through.  
But as he said these words to himself in his head, he sobbed silently inside. I am not a selfish person! his soul cried. I am good! If only people could see past the scars...see me...  
So far, however, the only person who had been able to do that had been Christine. It had started with admiration, with he as her dearest Angel of Music and teaching her to sing, then fear as he took her to his underground chambers and she saw his face—but soon to respect, for being strong while the world damned him, and then—  
No. He would not allow himself to go on and get his hopes up. She respected him, and that was all. No, wait—she also pitied him. Pitied him! As though he needed her sympathy to get by. He was doing well enough on his own, terrorizing the opera.  
But...all that he did...all he had done—the sole thing he had had in mind was Christine. All he wanted was to be with her, all he wanted was...her love.  
But the idea was preposterous. She would never- could never- love him. And all because of his horrible face. The only thing about him she loved was his voice, the one that taught her and guided her as her Angel of Music, giving her the greatest pleasure of her life: the ability to sing, and sing astoundingly well.  
I could give her better pleasures, he thought to himself. I could give her whatever she wanted, anything at all; whatever she wished in her wildest dreams...and of course, that was the only reason that he had...well, that he had done 'that' to her the night of 'Don Juan Triumphant': he wanted to make her see, although he was ugly he was the same as any man, just with scars. All he wanted was her love. That was all he had ever wanted, from the start. That was why he had taught her. That was why he hated Raoul so—he was competition. That was why he had released the chandelier, to make her know he was always there and knew what she planned to do; that was why he had killed the stage hand, that was why he had written the opera—and killed Piangi just to have that one precious moment of emotion in the song; he could act and touch her and caress her, and she would touch him back—she could not see his deformity hidden in the hood, and she had to go through with it because that was what acting was about. Even if something's not quite right, you keep going and ad-lib.  
Which was exactly what Erik had done: he had never planned to do what he did that night. It was just...when he had felt Christine touch him, run her hands along his arms and his chest, without flinching—especially when she knew it was him all along and not Piangi. He didn't know why she had done it—she could have always not acted so intensely, kept her distance more—but she had shown true passion on stage there. And the vibes he felt from her were suffocating him; he had to do something; to leave behind proof that he had been there and loved her and since she didn't love him back she had had to pay. Well, he had never meant to hurt her, or make her suffer: he realized his grave mistake soon afterwards. And after all, that was the Phantom's trademark, as it were: leave behind proof of his existence; no matter how unbelievable it was: proof was proof. And he was so desperate for her love...it was all he had ever wanted.

  
  
Lise stood stock still, staring in horror at the now closed panel in the wall. All this ridiculous adventure business had been such a mistake...now she would never get out! She shivered, and thought she felt something brush past her quickly. Glancing nervously around again, she turned her attention back to the wall.  
Although...if the panel had opened and closed, it certainly wasn't some magic act. There was definitely a button of some sort somewhere; an operating panel which controlled the secret doorway—  
"You are Lise, I presume?" A low voice came from the darkness behind her. She whirled around: and saw a figure in a black cloak and a dark top hat hiding his face.  
Lise involuntarily took several steps backwards. But even as she staggered back, the man stepped forwards. Finally her back met the wall behind her: and she was left helpless against this mysterious man.  
"I do not intend to harm you," the man said coolly, examining one hand idly. "At least, I will not if all parties involved comply to , one might call them."  
All parties involved?  
"There are more yet to come," said the man off-handedly, as if reading Lise's thoughts. "There is a certain rather delicate matter we need to discuss with...well, I do believe you know this other individual."  
Lise was utterly perplexed. Who else was this Phantom going to drag down here and intimidate, as he had done her? And why was she of any concern to this stranger?  
"You have no idea who I am, of course," the Phantom went on. "But we both share a...an acquaintance. I shall divulge no more now—soon we'll settle this...properly."  
As the Phantom finished his last word, Lise caught sight of something gleaming in his hand. The Phantom grinned.  
"You needn't worry about this," he told her, pulling out a silver dagger. "I've no use for it—yet."

Eleven-thirty. Christine, dread growing in the pit of her stomach, slowly started off for the dressing room. She was excited to see Erik again, in a way...but still scared. After all, this man had blackmailed, killed, and—Christine decided to stop thinking about it the moment she started.  
All too soon she had reached the dressing room door. Glancing around her cautiously, she reached into the front of her bodice and withdrew a small brass key. She pushed it as quietly as she could into the lock, and turned—only to find that it didn't turn.  
Desperately, Christine shook the key in its lock. Had they changed the lock? Would the key not work? Would she not be able to get in? Christine looked up at the clock ticking a little down along the hall: eleven-forty-two. Desperate, Christine wrenched the door knob—only to find that it turned easily, and so the unnecessary force of her push threw her inside.  
Why is it unlocked? Christine wondered, bewildered. She felt suddenly uneasy—and her doubts were confirmed as she turned slowly around.  
The mirror was open.  
Clearly someone had already gone in—perhaps they had discovered the Phantom! They might be finding out her secret! They—  
Christine felt faint, and was about to rush out in horror—but a sudden sight brought a new wave of shock and utmost fear upon her.  
On the ground, in front of the mirror, lay an embroidered handkerchief. The embroidery read one word: "LISE".  
Without stopping to think, Christine slammed the dressing room door shut, locked it, then bolted into the tunnel.


	7. Writing's on the Wall

Lise stood stock-still, terrified, and watched as the Phantom scrawled a message on the wall of the dimly-lit tunnel in what seemed to be red paint—but she noticed how thinly it trickled down the wall and glistened on the floor with a deadly glow. It took her a moment to stop shaking at the sight and look up to read the message—but by then the Phantom was done, and he had taken her arm in a cold iron grip and was pulling her firmly along behind him. Even if she had had the strength to pull away, there was something about this man that would not allow her to disobey. She felt as if he had drained her of her will and her mind, so that she was not able to resist. Anything he asked of her, she knew she would have to do.

Lise let herself be pulled along, feeling a thick, chilling mist close in around her as they proceeded farther along the tunnel, which twisted and turned and had so many intersections and openings off the sides that Lise knew if she was alone, she'd never find her way out. It grew darker, and she noticed that the torches were growing dimmer, as if there was a switch that could operate them. Finally, in the last of what little light there was, Lise saw an open gate at the end of the labyrinth, and the Phantom was steering her towards it. He pulled her through, slamming it behind them, and Lise heard a grinding sound like a key in a lock—but as she jerked her head around, there was no-one there who could have possibly locked it. She shivered and suddenly felt much weaker, but she was ever aware of the Phantom's grip on her wrist.

The only light now was of the moon, filtering in through thin gutter slits far overhead. Lise realized they must be outside somewhere, but far underground. Lise felt a sudden, unexpected tug on her arm, and they veered left, leaving the moonlit path behind them. Now they climbed a long, winding set of stairs; so narrow that even tiny Lise had to turn to the side to mount them. She didn't even stop to think how the Phantom could fit up the stairs—she was still scared stiff.

After what seemed hours of climbing, they dashed up the last few stairs, Lise on cold, numb legs, through a creaky, rotting wooden door, and into—no, _onto_—a long, narrow sort of shelf. Lise looked around her, then down below her...and realized they were in the flies above the stage of the dark, vast, empty opera.

Exhausted, Christine was about to turn the little boat around and row back the way she had come when she finally saw the tall, wide iron gate stretching out before her. This site was sickeningly familiar to her: she had been here before many times, but it was so long ago...it was like traveling back into the past again. She shivered, remembering the one time she had known Erik to be seriously cruel: when he had given her that chilling choice, a life with him or Raoul's death...and with newfound determination to retrieve her precious daughter and sort out this horrifying affair once more, she rowed on, finally reaching the shore and clambering on all fours under the gate.

Christine felt a wave of nausea wash over her, overwhelmed by all the memories that this place brought back to her, and staggered for a moment: but she soon found her footing and carried on somewhat confidently—after all, she knew Erik's little hideout very well, even after all those years.

She had been about to reach for the lever on the wall which would open the side tunnel, when she heard a slight whimpering from the opposite end of the Phantom's lair. For a moment, she thought in horror that it might be Lise. She ran across—but then realized it was not her daughter. She recognized instead one of the maids at the Opera Populaire.

"Madame Da—I mean Madame de Chagny! Please, I beg of you, help me...this is the Phantom's doing...he has returned..."

Christine, relieved that the maid was not hurt (remembering Buquet's horrifying demise all that long time ago), rushed over and unbound her from the seat. "Listen to me—you must leave this place, and..." Christine thought for a moment of telling the maid, Sofie, to alert the managers—but she knew she had to deal with this on her own. Besides...she couldn't bring herself to betray Erik again. "Just—just return to your home, and tell no-one of this. Please."

The maid still looked frightened and bewildered. "But Madame...you mustn't go alone—I will tell Monsieur Firmin—I can help you—"

Christine grasped Sofie's shoulders. "Please, do as I say. Trust me. I have been—I know this place well. I shall remain safe. Just do as I say—"Christine gave her a gentle push towards the gate. "Quickly! He mustn't know I've let you go."

Nodding fearfully, the maid Sofie ducked under the gate and into the boat, and began rowing forcefully away.

Once reassured that the maid was safe and out of the way, Christine headed once again for the lever, moving more quickly this time. She had no time to lose—she knew deep down that Erik would never hurt his own daughter, but still...she had seen this man do terrible things; she had seen him kill...

"Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur André! She's gone! It is happening again ! Christine had fled again, no doubt to the Phantom's lair—don't you see his plan? Can't you see what he's doing?!"

Meg had burst into the managers' office, taking the two quite by surprise. "Meg—Madamoiselle Giry—we know the opera ghost is back again, we have all received notes—but the Vicomtesse de Chagny is safe in her room, no doubt sleeping off the evening's fright. The Phantom has not yet shown his face; we are working again on a plan to capture him." Proud of this little speech meant to reassure, Firmin strutted to the door, making a motion which clearly indicated that he wished Meg to leave.

"But Monsieur!" Meg knew she'd never win an audience with that pompous old geezer, and so she turned instead to André. "Don't you understand?—the Phantom of the Opera is here, again, just like last time—he will make us all submit to him again, and we'll be like his dolls, acting out what happened so long ago—"

"Madamoiselle, what _are_ you rambling on about?" André interrupted airily. "Please, if you do not intend to make any sense when you speak, it is best to remain silent."

That was what really got Meg. The whole time she'd been a chorus girl, just a little meaningless ballerina, she'd been treated this way: just a little girl of no importance. She wasn't going to bear it any longer.

"Alright, if you gentlemen are going to sit back and let yourselves be put through all this again, be my guest. I, on the other hand, intend to stop this recurring nightmare before Christine ends up even worse off than last time!"

Meg knew the managers had no idea what had really happened to Christine, but it didn't matter: Meg wasn't going to let her friend get abducted by this monster yet again.

She stomped out of the room, fuming but determined. As she departed, Firmin looked to André. "Why, what happened last time?"

Christine had only just entered the tunnel when she saw the blood-red writing on the wall. The message read:

_To the Vicomtesse,_

_Your— our— daughter is perfectly safe—as long as she is not afraid of heights...?_

_From yours truly,_

_Erik_

Christine's blood boiled. The nerve! She knew exactly where he had taken Lise. After all, that was the very place that had inspired so many of the 'accidents' which had happened. It was like replaying a story, using those past events as clues.

She began to proceed down the tunnel but realized she did not know the way: if she were to get lost, she'd never find her way out. No, best to return the other way.

But as she crawled again under the gate, she remembered that Sofie had taken the boat back with her. Trembling, Christine realized she was truly running out of time. What now?

She stood for a moment, not knowing even in the slightest what she was to do. She certainly wasn't about to swim: the distance would fatigue her and if she got too tired, the heavy cloth of her dress could and would easily pull her under. And she dared not venture into Erik's labyrinth: she'd be lost for as long as it took Erik to realize it, and come down and find her; but by then she'd have no more reassurance of Lise's safety.

As she stood pondering her options in despair on the edge of the underground lake, she heard a soft, constant sound: water splashing against...there was something else on the shore a little further down. Venturing towards it, Christine perceived in joy a fair sized makeshift raft, and without pausing, she dragged it to the water, grabbed a pair of wooden planks, and 'rowed' away as best she could on the floating wood.

It seemed to take forever, but with this new glimmer of hope, Christine made it to the other side. She abandoned the raft and bounded towards the first tunnel, and soon had to put up a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden piercing light from the dressing room. Relieved to be back in a 'safe' place, she rushed down the hallway, and as she rounded a corner she almost ran right over Meg.

"Christine!" Meg cried, clasping her hands. "Where have you been?—You were _there_ again, weren't you?! Oh, Christine, what has happened? Where are you going?" The worried words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush, tripping over each other.

"Meg, we haven't much time," Christine gasped hurriedly. "He has Lise in the theater—I must go to her—he is to propose a deal—"

Meg stared at her in horror, momentarily speechless. But she soon found her tongue. "Christine, no! You would willingly put yourself into his clutches again? Can't you see his trap?—You _must_, Christine, you must understand!" she cried, trying to hold her friend there.

"Come with me then!" Christine took hold of Meg's wrist and began to lead her along the hallway at a running pace. "He has Lise! My daughter—_our_ daughter—I can't let her come to harm!"

Meg gave in. "Firmin refuses to believe me, he does not wish to help directly. As usual, he and André remain cowards. But I will not let you go into that danger alone...Christine—"

Christine stopped suddenly and turned, concerned at the tone of her dearest friend's voice. She detected an emotion she'd only heard back then when...when it had all happened. Just like it was happening again now.

Meg stared tearily into Christine's eyes. "You are the closest friend to my heart...all through that time long ago we were like sisters. Until the Phantom began to...began to make all these horrible things happen. I care about you so much, Christine...we _all_ do. I don't want to lose you to him again—you can't imagine how very afraid I was then, I couldn't bear to see you fall so easily into his hypnotic grasp...he had you in the palm of his hand; you would have _killed_ if he'd told you to do so!" Here Meg took a shaky breath, trying to keep her emotions in. "I watched you—as did Raoul—be taken prisoner of his times we waited in suspense for you to return once again from his lair, not knowing what he'd tricked you into believing that time. I remember distinctly one time, as the second round of threatening notes were read, with the Phantom's instructions for the opera he wrote with only you in mind—I remember you never wanted to do it, you didn't want anything to do with the plan to ensnare this terrifying, yet fascinating opera ghost...your Angel of Music, is how you referred to him the first time you confided in me about your secret tutor...But it was that time, when the notes were read, and the plan was formed, and they all tried to talk you into playing the lead in the plan: every hope rested on you; and in one rare moment of sobriety from the Phantom's elixir—his poison—you knew that those horrors would happen, and you realized for the first time what he'd done to you..."

Now Christine's pale porcelain cheeks were wet with tears, too; upon remembering every detail of that horror-filled era of the Phantom of the Opera. And such an era was beginning again.

But as torn as Christine was by Meg's loving heart, Christine knew she'd always known, after the mysterious disappearance of the Phantom, her precious Angel of Music, that there would have to be one last encounter...one last 'point of no return' to settle the score, so that there would be no wish to return at all. And while Christine knew she'd have to face Erik again to reach a temporary agreement, she knew that this meeting would not be the last. Christine knew the Phantom would come up with another proposal, another opera of his, which would end in yet another unforgettable end that would leave both he and Christine on the raw end of the deal.

Christine held Meg's hand to her face, and for a fleeting moment wished to simply give up and bawl, and have Meg comfort her and reassure her that there _was_ no Phantom, no Erik; just the distant dream of that Angel of Music her father promised her so long ago...that was all Christine had wanted in the beginning: an Angel of Music to sing songs in her head. She had just wanted to be another Little Lotte, dreaming of an angel. Dreaming of music: her passion, the fire that kept her dreams alive...never had she dreamed of straying so far from that path, from that desire. A simple child's wish. Now it had turned into a vulnerable woman's nightmare.

"Meg," Christine whispered, trying suppress the tremors running through her, "please, now is not the time to worry. This meeting with him will not be my last—I will come out of this one alive. Save your worries for the true point of no return. The Phantom will not let me go so easily this time..."


	8. First Confrontation

Just one note-

Please don't murder me for not updating in so long....

(Oh, just a little question—why do people feel the need to put a disclaimer??... This site was MADE for people to write stories based on already written and published stories, so wouldn't you think the site itself just had a huge general disclaimer for all the material on it?...)

By the way, this is the shortest chapter in the history of short chapters, but this is my exam week.

I'm just takin' a quick studying break, okay??

...I should win an award for procrastination...

* * *

Lise stood trembling on the narrow shelf-like ledge, her eyes closed in reverent prayer. She really wasn't afraid of heights...merely of falling from them. Having nothing, not even a rail or a rope, to hold onto did not help the situation.

Suddenly she felt a strong hand at her elbow, almost knocking her off-balance in sudden surprise—but the hand steadied her, and even though Lise still had no idea who this strange masked man was, she was grateful for his support for the time being. She relaxed a little, and peered through slitted eyes. Not that there was much to see—it was almost completely dark in the theater, and silent at death.

She shivered involuntarily. Then, hearing a rustling beside her, she tilted her head ever so carefully to see him slide his cloak off and drape it around her shoulders.

This confused her even more so than his hand at her arm. She didn't know this man, didn't know his intentions; did he intent to harm her? She couldn't think of anything else he'd want with her...and if he did, why would he bother being kind?

But she didn't have long to ponder these thoughts before the initial wondering fled her mind, pushed out and replaced once again by the fear of her current situation: standing there, swaying on the rickety wooden ledge, waiting for...for what?

"Lise! Lise...Lise, Lise!"

Lise started, jolting dangerously, and the Phantom's grip on her arm tightened. A sliver of light had crept into the theater from the open doorway of the side entrance, and someone had just come in, hissing Lise's name.

She gasped. "Mama!" she began to cry out—but suddenly another hand flew to her mouth, stifling the half-formed cry.

But she'd needed only a whisper. Christine, gliding soundlessly across the sleek stage, whipped her head up at the noises from up above.

"Lise! Oh—my darling—I—"

But what to do in such a situation? No time for a gentle reunion with her daughter—for she had been left teetering on the edge of the shelf. The Phantom was nowhere in sight.

"Mama—help me, please...what shall I—"

"Oh, Lise...just stay there—I'll be up for you..." Christine started towards the wings. She slipped through, into the dark area backstage, and began to feel her way along the wall toward the ladder when a cold hand wrapped around her wrist, a cold whisper cutting in.

"Would you really want to make things that much more dangerous for both yourself and the child?"

Christine hadn't even the breath to let out a gasp. He was here...the angel from her dreams, the Phantom from her nightmares...this mystery of a man, standing before her once again...she truly had never thought a time like this would come again. She felt intoxicated, as she always had then, by his presence, the mere nearness of this dark creature whom she had once so feared and adored.

"No?... I didn't think you would do anything quite so...careless," he murmured, drawing away from her and looking away calmly. "You've changed, Madame."

Christine finally found her voice. "You—you have no right...you bring me here, thinking you can—"

"Oh, but Madame de Chagny, can you go on? Thinking I can what? I know my plans far better than you, I assume...you do know, Madame la Vicomtesse, that I came to...suggest something?"

This infuriated Christine so much that any initial shock or longing was swept away.

"You have the nerve to call me...—you think you can get away with—being so—"

"But that is your name now, is it not?... Madame de Cha—"

"No! Stop! Let me—" Now there was almost a hatred burning inside of her, seeing him so cool and calm, confidently saying what he knew she'd hate. "Let me speak! For so long I've been the ignorant student, blundering blindly after you, taking lessons from you, so gullibly and willingly falling into your trap because of your enchantments; you charmed me into believing your words of kindness...but I will no longer be the stammering student gazing adoringly up at you, Erik," she spat. She felt almost on the verge of tears. "You won't have the last word anymore. You can't do this to me...I'd finally almost broken free of those feelings that swam up when you were there...you can't do this to me again, Erik...you can't..."

For once he was silent. Christine felt emotionally washed up, washed away...but she needed to continue.

"You bring me here again, reminding me of...of everything—and then any wonderings I had about you you confirmed; you lead me here and then take out your spite on me, calling me—you just take out your anger on me—you give _me_ the blame for making my own choice, my choice—when I left with..." She couldn't bring herself to say Raoul's name. She didn't want to bring him any more into reality than she had to. "You had me back then, you _had_ me...the choice you proposed, I didn't have any way out of it...and I only showed some compassion in hopes that you'd show some in return...and you did, Erik, you _did_! You let me go! But"— she laughed bitterly—"I should have known it wouldn't be for good. You'll never let me go, never let me go free, will you, Erik?"

He stood still, silently taking in her words. She had just emptied herself of this torrent of words, of passion, all in a rush, relating everything she'd never had the courage to say all those long years ago—and she had gotten it all right. He wouldn't...he _couldn't_ let her go again.

He struck his flow of soft thoughts with ice. No, he told himself. You'll never keep her if you openly hand her the reins. Keep the upper hand...don't give in with silly sentiment, don't give her up again with just—what—_compassion_! A waste of feeling, he resolved. Compassion is for the weak...you can't be weak, Erik...

He finally looked into Christine's soft brown eyes, full of feeling...but the pity was gone, at least. Replaced with a certain fury he'd never expected to see in those soft eyes before.

"Christine." It was the first time he'd spoken her name as simply as that since they'd reunited. Christine was somewhat taken aback: he couldn't be giving in...? No, not so easily; he'd never...

"I..." He was at a loss for words. What to say?

Suddenly a scream pierced the tense silence.

"Lise!" Christine gasped, rushing out of the wings and back onto the stage to see her daughter once more.

* * *

Iknow, way short. I just wanted to get it up quick for you darling peoples' sakes.

(...Grammar on that??!)


	9. Little Lotte

Haha, back again. Isn't it nice to have this done (somewhat) regularly now! Woot. Yeah, okay, I know, I'm still to blame for taking ages in the first place.

Oh, and...I SAW THE PHANTOM MOVIE!!! I have to say, I wasn't expecting it to be all that great, you know...nothing beats the musical...—and true, I still prefer the musical. But let's just say, despite any criticisms that came to mind...I (and three friends, who I'd all too phabulously introduced to the Phantom in the first (phirst, lol...okay, no more) place) ended up sobbing helplessly at the end and throwing the uneaten popcorn (uneaten 'cause I'd been so immersed in the movie :P).

Well, the popcorn-throwing was at the very NOT-matching song they stuck in randomly at the end.

Anyways—more about what I thought of it in my profile. On with the story.

* * *

Lise had never been so bewildered and frightened. Her mother seemed to know this man, it was all too obvious: she'd shown only relief at seeing her daughter once again, and—she could hardly bring herself to even think it—her mother hadn't seemed concerned about her safety in the hands of...of that...man. Again Lise's brow furrowed in intense confusion and concentration. _Who was he?_

But her mind wandered again to her mother's unusual behavior. She'd gone into the wings to come up to her—but now this ghost of a man had left her side, and she could hear whispers in the darkness to the side. She heard no scream, no cry of surprise or fear...her mother was simply _talking_ to this man. It made no sense...surely her mother would have mentioned him, if she'd expected to see him here? But still, although her mother hadn't seemed mortally afraid, there was still an icy suspension in the air, the nature of which Lise could not identify. What was this connection between this strange, mysterious man and her own mother—the Phantom and Christine?

Now the whispers grew noticeably louder, cutting into her thoughts and drawing her attention. She tentatively crept forward on the beam, wishing desperately to figure out what in the world was happening, and when her mother would come rescue her. The dark of the side of the stage, the end of the beam, loomed nearer, and Lise saw, to her relief, a railing at the end of it; barely visible in the darkness. Thinking of the security of the railing, the danger of her current position became sharper in her mind, and she wavered for a moment, her heart racing. The wood upon which she stood was so thin...and what if there were a weak spot near the end, and it collapsed?

Now this fear preoccupied Lise's mind more so than anything else going on; this immediate danger even pushed out the thought of the Phantom for the moment. She realized she was no longer trembling, but shaking tremulously, so much that now tremors were running through the wood itself. She was feeling even more desperate and breathing shakily, the view swimming before her eyes; and the truth that she was the only one up there on that dangerous board with no one to catch any such fall—bluntly said, were she to falter, there'd be no chance of rescue—gave her a mad urge to lunge for the railing. And she did so—stumbling along the ledge, she leaned forward, teetering on her toes, reaching her hands out for the bar of the railing—

Just as she'd gotten a tight grasp on the cold metal bar, she realized she hadn't moved forward enough—she'd simply fallen forward—and her feet swung sideways, off the board completely. It was unbelievable, like a tale completely invented to frighten the acrophobes—she was hanging solely from her hands from the metal bar, her feet dangling queasily a good way above the hard floor of the stage.

She let out a shrill scream of intense surprise and mortal fear, barely maintaining her conciousness: indeed, the scene was swimming before her eyes, swirling and twisting, her eyes fixed by a somnolent blur. Her hands felt damp and slipped along the length of the bar...

It was at that moment that her mother came rushing back into view, having heard her scream. Christine too let out a cry, but wasted no more time: she immediately rushed back to the wings to the ladder. But she'd forgotten exactly where it was—her hands fumbled along the wall in the dark, searching for the only lifeline, the only way to her daughter.

Yet even as she feverously and blindly swiped at the wall with her trembling, pale hands, she felt a sudden breeze behind her and a black shadow moving fast along the passageway. Only moments later, she looked up and saw the dark shape and fluttering cloak of Erik, already three quarters of the way up the ladder.

There was no more she could do there—so she sped once more out onto the stage, arriving just in time to see her Angel pulling their daughter to safety, and disappearing once more down the ladder. Moments later he appeared just on the threshold of the stage, on the border between the darkness of the wings and the openness of the stage. He gently set Lise down, and Christine could have sworn his eyes were full of concern—worry—and relief as he observed his daughter.

Lise, in the meantime, was still in a complete daze. One moment, she'd been teetering on the edge of her life, and the next, she was being swept down to solid ground, and was standing between the two most opposite people to have ever entered her life: the one for whom she felt the most love, comfort, and security; and the other...the one whom she felt the most fear. Yet she found she didn't have any certain urge to draw away from the nearness of this ghost...what was it about him, all of a sudden, that made him seem suddenly more of a familiar, yet still mystifying figure? Lise put it to the fact that he'd just saved her life up there; he couldn't be so bad then, after all...

Her senses sharpened suddenly. She rushed into her mother's arms, the both of them shaking furiously with waves of relief. The two remained in their embrace for a long while; comforting themselves from each of their most recent traumas.

Finally Lise drew away, feeling already better—and now the silence was overbearing. The situation was unthinkably awkward: this man who had once seemed so dangerous and intensely frightening to Lise had just shown compassion and saved her, and now was standing meekly at the side, watching the reunion of mother and daughter. And there was a question Lise wanted to pose to her mother, but couldn't put it to her any less bluntly since the man in question was standing just beside them.

"Mama..." she whispered carefully—though there were still audible tremors in her voice—"who...who is he?"

Christine froze. Of course, she should have been expecting this. But...what to say? Certainly not the truth...not now, anyway. That left her still at a loss for words.

As for Erik, he still stood in the same position as before, unmoving, showing no reaction or emotion to any of the happenings. What had he just done? he pondered to himself, in a state of confusion he'd never experienced before. He'd just demonstrated the compassion that, long ago, he'd promised he'd never, ever show...demonstrating that compassion to another person, a person other than Christine...he'd hardly have thought it possible of himself. But, after all...this wasn't merely some 'person other than Christine', after all...it was the result of his only passion, for Christine...it still seemed so unbelievable to him...

And even as both Christine and Erik's thoughts drifted away once more, leaving them completely aware and awake to the present reality, the silence remained. Lise looked to her mother, then, more reluctantly, to the man on her other side—but standing farther away—and back to her mother again, waiting for an answer—but one she now realized probably wouldn't come right then.

Finally the man—the Phantom—spoke.

"This...business...will not be left unfinished," he murmured, casting a lingering glance at Christine. "And, it is now in my interest to ask a small favor, in return..." He did not finish his sentence, but Christine knew what he was saying was that he was owed something for rescuing Lise.

"We shall meet as usual." He paused, then added—"Little Lotte."

A simple enough phrase, but one, for Christine, that evoked such memories...

* * *

Again, yeah, it was short. But it's about 1 AM here. (Don't ask why I always write so late, maybe it's something to do with the Phantomness of the nighttime.)

R&R!


	10. Enter Raoul

The unthinkable has happened.

I've updated this particular story of mine.

Let me tell you how this miracle came about. I was sitting around earlier this morning, avoiding homework and the likes, and then—my mind unblocked, and I thought of something to do with this which will, hopefully, add some more interest to the story…

PLEASE review! Especially after all this time. This phic feels so very alone.

Oh, and- I hereby dub this chapter & any further ones (until I say so) Part II, because 1) New beginnings, new happenings, you know, the mood changes etc. and 2) because, well, it seems fitting, since I haven't updated it in about a century.

* * *

**10**

Morning broke over Paris; a new day had begun. Sunlight glanced off the polished surface of a Barouche carriage, hood drawn up, rattling down the street, the only life in sight thus far so early in the morning.

It slowed and stopped directly in front of the Paris Opera house, and the driver jumped lightly off his seat at the front and moved to the door of the carriage. He opened it, and out stepped a fairly young, tall, handsome figure, dressed very well—clearly of high esteem. A nod to his driver, and he started up the stairs of the opera house, glancing about apprehensively as he strode through the open front door.

"Monsieur de Chagny!"

A cry resounded through the spacious marble foyer, and the man, the Vicomte de Chagny, turned towards its source.

"Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur André!" he said jovially, extending his hand to each in turn. "It has been quite a while!"

"Indeed! Shall we?"

The two managers led him up more steps and into a long corridor, informing him of the news as they went.

"Your daughter—"

"Quite something, yes—"

"—we expect great success—"

"—do quite well here, indeed—"

The Vicomte smiled, pleased to hear his daughter was taking so well after her mother—if she'd taken after him, she'd merely be squawking her songs. It was good that she'd inherited her mother's beautiful tone.

"Speaking of the family, then, gentlemen," he said, "where are the two songbirds?"

"Well, the first is just here, monsieur," André said, stopping at a polished wooden door off the corridor. "I doubt she's awake yet, though—"

"Never mind, I'll take the key."

With that, André handed him the room key, and he and Firmin were off with cheery waves, and the Vicomte de Chagny placed the key in the door and turned.

* * *

Christine wasn't sure what had woken her: the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, the birdsong outside the window, or the man sitting beside her on the bed, gently entwining his fingers in her hair.

"Raoul!"

She sat up immediately and threw herself into his arms. She felt quite disoriented, having just woken up: she knew she was shaken from something, and afraid; but at the moment, she didn't care. She just knew she was glad to have her husband there beside her to hold her.

"Oh, my Christine…" he murmured. "I've missed you in these few days! Has it only been two or three? Days, that is…"

"You were gone for a while before I came here," Christine replied, finally able to relax in his arms. "Remember? You were away…for a week…"

"Ah, yes. That's right…"

There seemed to be no need for speech between them. Christine felt strangely soothed and calm at being with Raoul…he'd always been a source of comfort for her; ever since they'd met all that long time ago…and when her father died…and when the Phantom had—

She stiffened suddenly and pulled away. Erik! What to do? She had to meet him again…and find out what he wanted…otherwise he'd continue his attacks and scares at the Opéra Populaire…

Raoul noticed her sudden change in mood.

"What is it?"

"I…" Christine paused. She hated having secrets…after all, secrets were always the start of chaos…

But she couldn't tell him. How could she? He wouldn't believe her. And if he did, he'd take her and Lise away—which would only add to the danger.

"I'm fine. Just—we should go check on Lise."

Raoul agreed. Christine dressed, then they left the room.

* * *

Lise sat in her room, still contemplating the happenings of the previous night. The man in the mask…how he'd saved her…her mother, how she seemed to have known him…and what he'd said to her—no, what he'd _called_ her: Little Lotte...

It was all too much to take in at once. It couldn't be real; it was too much like a fantastic tale one might hear in the dark of the night, told by the gossiping ballet rats. She had to have dreamt it…

She stood and walked to the mirror of the vanity table against the wall, and stared at her reflection—not out of vanity; merely to evaluate herself. A pale face with wide shimmering eyes stared back at her. Why her? Why was _she_ the one this…this Phantom…was victimizing?

Then a thought occurred to her. Of course, it wasn't just _her_—it was her mother, too…

Something began to work itself out in the depths of her mind. She didn't know why, but this man had known her mother before—there was some sort of history between them—and now she, Christine Daaé's daughter, was here…perhaps, as the daughter, she had something her mother had had, too, that this Phantom wanted…

So lost in her thoughts was she that she hadn't realized just how pressingly silent the room was, broken by a knock on the door.

Lise went to the door and pulled it open to find both her mother _and_ her father standing outside in the hallway.

"Papa!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here? I thought you were still in Burgundy!"

Her father circled his arms about her in a hug.

"Well, I was due to stay longer, but it was too long to be away from the two loveliest ladies in Paris," he said smilingly, glancing at his wife over Lise's head and giving her a wink.

Lise saw her mother smile warmly back, but saw the troubled, distracted look in her eyes all the while, and knew what it was for.

The de Chagny family retired to a small library-sitting room, off the same corridor, and Lise and Christine half-listened to Raoul tell of his stay in Burgundy. They responded to his tale: laughing when he jested, 'ooh'ing or 'ahh'ing when he described something particularly awesome. But Lise couldn't completely concentrate his story; so many other questions and worries and doubts were consuming her mind. And, by the looks of it, her mother's mind, too.

A few hours and a large breakfast later, Raoul stood.

"Who's ready for a tour of Paris? After all, we never get into this part of the city much…shall we?"

Lise and her mother exchanged a glance, and Christine hesitated for a split-second before nodding and forcing a smile onto her face.

"Sounds wonderful. Lise?"

Before Lise had a chance to respond, the door opened, and Meg Giry walked in. The girl glanced at Christine and Lise, a relieved yet still somewhat worried and inquisitive expression on her face. She looked as though she were about to speak to Christine, but then she saw Raoul.

"Oh! They told me you were here, but—" she said cheerily, and went to him. Their greeting was awkward, but they finally settled on shaking hands, both laughing a little.

"Well, Meg—another to take after her mother," he said, partly for Lise's benefit, smiling at her.

Meg laughed.

"Yes…it did take quite a while to talk her out of the position, even when she kept forgetting to show up for rehearsals," she remarked, chatty as always. "But, here I am. And—" she turned to Lise— "the reason I'm here _now_ is because Messrs. Firmin and André sent me to get you. You're to begin rehearsal today!"

Lise's fears and worries and questions evaporated at once at the prospect of a wonderful day of singing; simply singing the whole time. Well, she knew it would be work, of course—but she was willing to do it, since that was her passion.

The others saw Lise's face light up, and laughed.

"Well, run along then," Raoul said with a loving smile. "We know you'll be fine. Christine? Shall we go just us, then?" He extended his arm to her, and she took it, resolving to put all other matters out of her mind for the day. After all, she did feel guilty about questioning her feelings for Raoul (even if her questioning was indeed accurate)—even if she didn't love him the way she'd vowed when they were wed, he was still so dear to her, and a source of great comfort. And they were married, after all.

The four of them left the room and went their separate ways, Christine kissing Lise good-bye briefly and whispering swiftly into her ear, "We'll speak later."

Then they were gone.

* * *

By the time Lise was dismissed, she was almost dreading the following day's rehearsal. Singing had been wonderful, but she hadn't thought it would be so much work! She had sung for about six hours straight, and had completely worn herself out—but at least she knew she'd improved; it was apparent. She had more control of her voice now, even in just that one day. And the performance would be in only a matter of weeks—the managers had chosen _Otello_, the opera of the Shakespearean story Othello. She'd been informed that without a doubt, she'd be cast as Desdemona.

She reentered the library, where she found her mother and father sitting on opposite armchairs, her father reading and her mother writing a letter.

They both looked up when they saw their daughter enter the room.

"Lise, darling, how was it?" Christine asked, with a knowing smile—the first time Lise had seen a sincerely jovial expression on her face since they'd arrived. Her father listened intently as she spoke.

"Oh, it was so long, and hard! I'd never have expected anything like it. But—it was fun," she remarked as an afterthought. She plopped down next to her mother, and noted that Christine subtly but swiftly pushed the letter into her correspondence folder, out of sight.

Christine and Raoul recounted their day to Lise in turn, telling her about all the sights in Paris.

"We'll take you another time, I promise," Raoul said. "Now—as for dinner, we saw a restaurant just down the street from here. What do you say?"

"Perfect," Lise said distractedly, dreaming of the opening night of Otello, when she'd sing professionally, in public for the first time. She could hardly wait…although, there was something else nudging at the back of her mind, trying to remind her of something. She was too tired to pay attention to it, though, and thought only of the plan to go down to dinner.

"We'll meet in half and hour in the foyer, and go out," Christine said, and they each went to their rooms.

* * *

Lise entered her room, closing the door behind her, and went to her closet to pick out something to wear. The dresses she'd brought weren't very fancy or elaborate—she hadn't known quite what to bring—but Meg had lent her several dresses of her own, since Meg was a fairly small size, about the same as Lise.

She picked out a forest-green, silky dress, and examined her reflection in the mirror. Not the most flattering thing on earth, but it would do. She then went to the vanity table, picked up her brush, and put half of her hair up, leaving some to curl softly down over her shoulders, partially visible in that particular dress..

After critically examining her reflection a moment longer, she sat down on the end of her bed and sighed. She still had about fifteen minutes until she was to meet her parents for dinner. She glanced around the dimly lit room—at her wardrobe, her vanity, her desk—sighed, then fell onto her back on the bed.

Then, the sight she'd seen just before she'd lain back finally processing, she sat right back up, and looked back to her desk. Upon the surface lay a deep red, velvety booklet.

Lise stood slowly and made her way to the desk. Coming closer, she picked it up, and opened the cover.

On the very first page of the thick book, Lise read,

_Don Juan Triumphant_.

* * *

Guess what, guys- I actually have a CHAPTER PLAN now! And I'm getting all excited about it...which means I'll update soon.

Oh, and also- up there I wrote 'awesome'- and so No, it _isn't_ 'awesome' in the sense of 'Dude thats freakin awesome'- even though people (myself included, I admit) use the word carelessly and as slang today, it's actually a pretty useful, sophisticated-_ish_ word. Well, it _was_. Meh. Point is, that wasn't an accident because I couldn't think of anything better to put. I had to use it.


	11. Angel of Music, Again

Yes! Another update! Within the same year! Surprising, eh?

Well, here it is. Read on, my friends...

* * *

Lise still couldn't push her discovery from her mind, even as she sat with her parents at dinner at the restaraunt. Nothing was adding up! What she'd found on her desk—_Don Juan Triumphant_—was the score of the very opera her mother had back home; that her mother had been, all that long time ago. For it to suddenly appear in _her_ room—when it apparently hadn't been a current production; or any kind of well-known production at all—made no sense. It was too strange a situation to even ponder—and, somehow, Lise felt it was just one more thing she shouldn't bring to her mother's attention.

"Lise, darling?"

She was shaken from her thoughts to find her parents regarding her with concern. The waiter was at their table now.

"Oh...yes..." she said vaguely, showing the waiter what she wanted from the menu, and shifting back into her dazed state. Not for long, though—

"Lise, dear—you don't look yourself; a little pale, in fact—Christine, what do you think?"

Christine looked at her daughter with full, knowing eyes; feigning surprised concern for her husband's sake. Lise bit her lip and stared back at her mother in the same way. _Let her think I'm still dwelling on the incident,_ she thought to herself. _It was traumatic enough. I don't have to tell her about..._

"Oh, she's only tired from her long, hard day," her mother laughed—forcedly, though. "Why don't we miss out the dessert course, just for now, and make an early night, hmm?"

Lise nodded, yawning; playing her part perfectly. Although, she _was_ actually rather tired—she hadn't had to fake the yawn. Her mother's proposition sounded good indeed. She needed some sleep to rest her mind from all its troubling.

The waiter returned with drinks—wine for Lise's mother and father, while she herself had tea. The waiter, in black dress suit as all the waiters were, paused as he handed Lise her tea, fumbling with the spoon in the cup. Lise paid no attention, looking instead at her mother chatting away with her father, yet with a distracted expression on her face. She could tell her mind was still on...that man. Lise shook herself as she began to, for the thousandth time, go over the events of the previous night in her mind—she was just giving herself more tiring matters to dwell upon.

The waiter set her cup down and went. Lise never noticed his uneasy glance back at the table as she took the first sip of the scalding tea.

The first course came, then the second, then yet another course. Lise's eyelids gradually drooped lower and lower as the evening went on; feeling strangely numb to anything that was happening around her. Indeed, she felt almost unnaturally weary—she hadn't felt nearly this bad before...surely she was simply tired.

All of a sudden she felt the most peculiar sensation, like someone's eyes on the back of her head. She turned her head and searched the restaurant, but saw no one. Ignoring the feeling, pushing it away out of scorn, she turned her attention back to her own table—where the waiter had suddenly appeared once more, at her mother's side.

Lise noticed his hands clutched together around something behind his back, and saw he was holding something. Her mother was looking up at him in concern as he bent down slightly towards her and said in a low voice, "A...certain gentleman has asked me to bring this to you."

His voice was deep but clear, though with an accent unfamiliar to Lise. She struggled to keep her eyes open to watch him hand what he had been holding to her mother: a single red rose, tied with the thinnest, slimmest black ribbon—so thin she could easily have missed it, were she not scrutinizing the scene so closely, and especially as she was so tired.

Her father looked over in mild concern—but he, too, had a dazed and dreary look on his face, looking just as tired as Lise felt.

But the expression on her mother's face was what confused her the most. It was one of sudden realization—followed swiftly by worry, fear, horror—and then the smallest of smiles graced her face for a split-second, as she examined the rose—a sort of sad, nostalgic smile. Then it was hurriedly replaced by a forced one, accompanied by that same fake laugh.

"Oh, how nice!" she said, seemingly beaming. "Which gentleman?" She pretended to glance about the restaurant.

"I...it's—a gentleman," the waiter said, sounding confused himself. They could get nothing else out of him, so he hurried off, leaving them rather puzzled at his behavior.

Except for Christine.

"Oh! That's so sweet; perhaps someone who knows me from the opera!" she gasped, sounding happy and genuinely curious. "Raoul, you'd better watch out; I've still got admirers!"

Raoul, on the other hand, was looking rather concerned—but at his wife's words he shrugged and smiled to match Christine. Yet he still couldn't stifle his yawn as he murmured, "That's nice, Chris...tine..."

But the minute Raoul turned his attention to something else, rubbing his eyes tiredly, Christine's face dropped into a subtly fearful expression. Lise watched her scan the restaurant with her eyes, then frown and stare down at the rose.

After a brief moment, Christine let out a huge yawn and slumped into her chair exaggeratedly.

"Goodness, I _am_ rather tired...Raoul, I'm afraid—" she cut herself off with a yawn—"I might...go back up to bed early...we're just around the corner; I might lie down...I feel dizzy..." she said apologetically.

Raoul looked at her with genuinely tired eyes, but he nodded slowly, sat up straight and stretched.

"Go on up, dear. I'll just pay and we'll be up shortly..."

Christine smiled, kissed him on the cheek, then put on her cloak, secretively picked the rose up from the table and slipped it inside—but not before Lise saw the ring tucked away between the petals, the dim candlelight glancing off its perfect, polished surface. Then Christine kissed her daughter's forehead and was gone.

* * *

How could she have forgotten? After all that had happened…she had completely forgotten their ritual meetings from so long ago; and how he'd asked her to come that very night.

Christine burst through the private entrance to the opera house and almost ran through the foyer. She was careful not to look to hurried or harrowed; she knew there would still be people about the place, late as it was. She rushed up the stairs, around a corner, up a few more flights, and on down the hallway—not even thinking about how to get where she was headed. She knew it so well; going there faithfully every afternoon to prepare for the evening's show—then after the shows, night after night, back again…to meet with her Angel…

The whole way there, as her feet knowingly led the way, she let her mind wander. Erik still had yet to discuss his 'deal' with her…oh, what was this new ploy to capture her again?

Christine finally found herself striding down the right corridor, slowing reluctantly at the right door. Her old dressing room…Lise's now, she knew. Frowning and silently scolding her trembling fingers, she drew a deep breath—and with it, a sudden strange burst of confidence—and opened the door.

It was, naturally, unlocked; and Christine ventured into the dimly lit room and softly closed the door behind her. Then, as though it were a second thought—she locked it with the key that sat purposefully in its lock on the inside of the door.

The candelabras beside the dresser were lit, and the room glowed with a soft light, shadows dancing—trembling—on the walls. On the dresser itself lay yet another rose…this one just plain and unadorned; no ribbons or rings—just a rose. Christine exhaled slowly; not even knowing she'd been holding her breath; feeling somehow calmed by it all. She stood in the same place for a few moments more, her eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly and deeply; then moved to a corner of the little room where there was a wide, comfortable sofa, and sat down.

It all seemed so strangely calm…and it all felt right—except—

Christine felt a sudden pang of panic. In the wave of emotions that followed her reunion with her former dressing room, she'd been completely oblivious to the fact that—

He wasn't there.

She sat up sharply. Had she come too late? Oh, if she had, surely he would be furious…she prayed he hadn't come yet; that she'd gotten there first…

She glanced towards the mirror. Perhaps he _was_ there… She stood and pried one of the candles from its stand by the dresser, wax dripping down onto her hand, and brought it close to the mirror. She stood just to the side, on the right; held the candle close, and looked just to the right of the flame; almost through it, just as he'd taught her—at such an angle that she could see, just barely, very dimly, what was behind the double mirror. She peered closely at the passageway she could just barely make out—

Nothing.

She sighed, drawing the candle away from the mirror—but not before she caught sight of the end of a dark shadow swishing past the exact spot the candle trick allowed her to see through the mirror.

She froze. It was him, she knew it. His cape. He really would be better off without it; it could cause all kinds of trouble. Christine was actually surprised there hadn't been any accidents with it beforehand.

Just as she thought this she mentally chastised herself. She was in too grave a situation to be thinking such thoughts.—Yet…Erik was playing some sort of game with her; pretending he wasn't there—probably, she figured, so as to make a surprise entrance and shock her into submission.

She sighed again, with a tiny shrug, and secured the candle back in its holder, and perched on the edge of the sofa, her gaze still fixed attentively (but somewhat carelessly) on the mirror. He didn't know she'd seen him—of course not; he was so confident of all his little tricks that he thought she had no idea, and he thought he'd take her completely by surprise when he made his presence known to her. But she was still unsure what to do.

Suddenly feeling somehow contended and almost coquettish with her knowledge, she began to sing. Of course he wouldn't be expecting that: her voice was the one weapon she had against him; it was his one…his one _weakness_.

"_In sleep he sang to me…_" she sang softly, gazing at the mirror, still perched on the edge of her seat, hands clutching the edge, "_in dreams he came… That voice which calls to me,… and speaks my name…_"

She let her voice grow a little in her song, taking on the shape and beauty it always used to when she sang with such fervor. Granted, she hadn't sung in a long, long time—it had still been too painful; she'd preferred to leave it all behind. But now she began to realize how she'd missed it, and how—even if she tried—she'd never lose it.

As she finished the phrase the room grew silent once more—so silent, in fact, that she thought she could almost hear Erik's light breathing behind the mirror; standing frozen behind the glass, she knew; the way he always did when she sang. As close as he had ever dared go…in the beginning, at least.

Christine paused, then took another breath—and changed her song.

"_But…his voice filled my spirit…with a strange, sweet sound…_" she sang; slowly, reverently; now standing and moving towards the mirror; all very slowly. "_In that night, there was music…in my mind…_" The passion grew in her voice. "_And through music, my soul…began to…soar…_"

She'd never sung with that much true feeling before. How she'd missed it—singing, yes, but most of all—singing for _him_.

"_Now I sing as I've never sung before…_" The words she sang now, though different, were truer than they'd ever been.

And—to her enormous surprise, even though she hadn't known what to expect in the slightest—a voice answered her in song; a voice she'd yearned to hear for so long…:

"_What you sing…is a dream, and nothing more…_"

She almost fell to her knees at the feeling that washed over her as she heard his voice, singing, once more.

But—

"That is not what we're here for, Christine, and you know it."

She looked up. The mirror was now clear as glass. There he stood, staring right back at her. And—of all things—she broke into a smile, in spite of herself. But the moment she felt it touch her lips she fought it back and raised her head in defiance. She wouldn't let him do this to her.

"Are you too good for my tricks now, madame? I thought the mysterious apparition act was rather amusing," he said, in the simplest of tones, so that Christine couldn't tell what he was feeling, or what he meant by it.

"Erik—do not play games," she said softly. "I do know what we're here for. You needn't make it difficult by playing ghost with me. I _know_ you."

This reply seemed to be different than what Erik had expected, for he seemed taken aback, and a tense silence rested between them for quite a while. However, Christine soon realized that while he was taken aback, the answer also somehow displease him:

"Do you?"

Christine, in turn, was knocked off balance by this.

"Do I—what?"

"Know me? Really, do you?"

"I…" She didn't know what to say. "I know you better than anyone else here, I can give you that," she said hesitantly, softly. "But I don't know you well enough to ever know what goes on in your mind, if that's what you mean. I don't know your—feelings."

"Oh, I have feelings now, do I?"

This shocked Christine more than anything else that had happened that night—especially the roar of cold laughter that accompanied it. But he wasn't finished.

"I thought the poor, pitiful monster didn't _have_ feelings. No, of course he didn't; not all those times he was betrayed, and mocked, and scorned, and made fun of—as child and adult. No, he never had feelings; his whole life he surely didn't; not that whole time as he was brought up in the world that knew it and took advantage of it! Oh no, _madame_—he couldn't have had them that night down underground when he was left alone, and wished to _die_?"

This Christine couldn't stand.

"I never wished you to _die_! Erik, don't you see!" she cried hopelessly. "Perhaps I was a fool; I was afraid, I was angry—but I _never_ wished that—and I've _changed_, Erik, I've _changed_! I know you expected me to run at every clue you were here—especially after last night—but I've changed! I didn't run. I'm here, and so are you. I've changed—and I thought you would, too."

She finished, and breathed heavily, shocked at her nerve—she'd never spoken up to him like that! She'd never been so bold…not with him, anyways… She'd changed, yes—but she'd only changed just then, as she said that. She'd shocked even herself.

But, even so—no one was more shocked than Erik, she knew. She knew she'd dug in right at the heart of it—the fragile place in Erik's soul; the one place where he was not confident and brave.

She waited, trembling, for his reply.

* * *

No comment on the, um, "cliffhanger". I know, I know- I was going to put it all in one chapter- you know, everything about 'The Deal', etc- but I'm sick which means that a) my brain is malfunctioning and b) The Mom wants me off the computer and into bed. :S

But, nonetheless- REVIEW!


End file.
